


We Are Young

by That_Brat_Bravat (MrSpears)



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Death, Gift Fic, Inspired by Music, Narrative, One Shot, POV First Person, Reapers, Shinigami, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-28
Updated: 2016-12-28
Packaged: 2018-09-12 23:22:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9095224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrSpears/pseuds/That_Brat_Bravat
Summary: A one shot based on the song "We Are Young", following Ronald and his entry into Dispatch.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Johnlockthedoors](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Johnlockthedoors/gifts).



_Give me a second I... I need to get my story straight... my friends are in the bathroom getting higher than the Empire State..._

I remember bottles on the floor. Empty dark brown glass that had earlier that morning been home to 'medicinal tonics'. There had been five of them or more, at least as many bottles as there were people. It tasted like piss and ditch water but it knocked you so far off your ass your eyes rolled up and you got a glimpse of Heaven right before your vision clouded and the whole world spiraled into a dark, dizzy daze. My friends at the time liked to mix it with their cheap red wine, which did little more than create a busy cocktail of downers and uppers that fouled their breath and made their eyes start wandering independently of each other. 

Yet I was stone cold sober when I pulled the trigger later that night. I retained consciousness just long enough to see my blood start to pool around the bottles. The fatal fade to black was nothing like the highs I had experienced before. My entire skull was ringing as if the bullet had ricocheted off every single side before burying itself deep in my brain. 

And it hurt. It hurt like a goddamn bitch. 

_My lover she is waiting for me just across the bar..._

At some point, I woke up. I remembered what had happened; but for some reason it wasn't registering that I should be dead. I looked down at the floor and scowled at the mess that was there. I had been out for some time - the blood was dark and starting to congeal. I saw fragments of skull, bits of brain added and swirling on the top in grisly circles. Clumps of blonde hair were stuck to the sticky tiles, and I accidentally hit one of the bottles with my foot as I managed to pull myself over to the sink. The gun was still clutched in my limp fingers, my hand trembling with exertion or terror. 

I think I glanced in the tarnished mirror that was barely hanging on above the chipped sink. I didn't look like someone who had just blown their own head apart starting at the roof of their mouth. 

I had a date that night. It was a small detail I recalled as I dragged myself into the kitchen to try and make myself some tea. My bare feet were tracking blood across the wooden floor as I changed courses halfway through my thought. I was moving slowly - my thoughts as loose and languid as the spinning bits of brain I had left behind. 

I couldn't even remember her name. But I remembered that she was someone's housekeeper. An honest girl with ruddy cheeks and sugar brown eyes. I remember her being too good for me, but I told her I would buy her a drink after her shift regardless. 

_My seat's been taken by some sunglasses asking 'bout a scar and... I know I gave it to you months ago. I know you're trying to forget. But between the drinks and subtle things the...holes in my apologies; I'm trying hard to take it back_

I recognized her almost immediately. She didn't look annoyed or upset - perhaps she hadn't been here long. Funny - I remembered it being much later than it apparently was when I put the revolver to my mouth. Then again, my perception of time wasn't so great these days. 

The bar was crowded - and loud - it did nothing for my thoughts. It felt like the bullet was still in there - rattling around my head with every nerve screaming out in pain. Walking was, I realized, a chore. But I hadn't realized how hard it was until I noticed that I was about to collapse into the next seat I saw that was available. 

There was one open next to her - not that I was going to be able to even begin to explain myself - my state. I reached out to grab it, even though I was still several feet away, and someone beat me to it. 

A rough hand landed on the back of the chair, pulling it back so that it grumbled across the wooden floorboards. The man who landed in its seat was large and muscular; I recognized him, too. He was a laborer - but I couldn't remember his name either. I knew him mostly by the ugly scar that cut across his cheek - which wasn't _necessarily_ my fault. I _had_ been the one to slam a wooden board into his face, and I had not minded the fact that there was a good half inch of nail sticking out the business end. He bled like a stuck pig, but he had been the one to start things in the first place. 

_So if by the time the bar closes - and you feel like falling down - I'll carry you home tonight_

The world was getting dizzier. If I wasn't careful I was going to collapse. 

I reached out to grab hold of another chair. I didn't care if there was already someone in it. I grasped a hand instead, and leather-gloved fingers closed around mine - pulling me around so quickly that I nearly hurled. The leather was expensive - the glove tailored to slender fingers that were small like a woman's, but the palm was broad and strong - a more masculine grip.

"We meet at last, darling! Oh, you naughty boy. How dare you force me to chase you up and down the street, seeking out your staggering corpse you filthy little beast." 

It was a baritone voice with a cultured accent, but it was being forced to speak in a few octaves above its natural range. The lilting, fluttering sentences made my headache even worse than it was. 

"Please," I muttered, wondering if this loud, obnoxious fop recognized me and was thusly interested in my services. "My head is killing me tonight." 

"I fear your are past ailing, dear - you went straight to _dead_ without a second blink. Your poor head can't collect itself around that nasty bullet. Never fear, however, I know a friendly face in our forensics department who can take right good care of you." 

Nothing this person was saying made sense. But my head hurt too much to argue. The ringing was getting worse - transforming into a high-pitched squeal. 

Was there really a bullet in my brain? How was I alive? 

"You aren't." They answered my question as if I had spoken aloud - maybe I had. "Like I said, darling, straight to dead. You will find it isn't so bad as everyone makes it seem."


End file.
